Seeing the question on her face, he explained, “I left the village to find work, to help support my brother after his wife’s passing. Although I am literate, many companies refused to hire me as a bookkeeper or tutor because of my lack of formal education. I joined a factory, but there was an accident, and I was let go because I was no longer of use to the company. I couldn’t afford the rates of a doctor in Andhra, and the wound got infected. Eventually, I returned home, where the village healer had to amputate it.”
“So you see,” Mishika said, “selling the land makes the most sense for us. It will sustain us until the children finish school and find steady, safe jobs. The Welkish academies are expensive?—but they’re worth it.”
Poppy didn’t want to disagree, not when the old woman spoke with such conviction. But her own experiences at a Welkish academy had nearly broken her. She doubted the schools on the island, run by Welkish administrators, would be any more welcoming to Virian students.
Carefully, she said, “The Welkish schools don’t focus on Virian history, aside from the colonization of the island. The lessons are... biased. Are you not concerned that your grandchildren will lose your traditions and culture?”
“Culture couldn’t have saved my son or daughter-in-law,” Kanav answered. “But an education could have. It’s not an easy choice to make?—we are not selling our ancestral home lightly?—but we cannot lose a future generation to preserve the past.”
“It hardly matters.” A hard edge entered Ganak’s tone. “A lot of Virian history is biased too. Against vasudhakt. An unfortunate by-product of daivyakt nobility gatekeeping education, I suppose.”
“Biased, how?” Hasan asked. His cool tone was layered with skepticism.
“For one, when daivyakt tell the origin story of how they came to wield divine power, they like to say that daivyakhi was given to the holiest of Virians, implying some sort of spiritual shortcoming on the behalf of vasudhakt. If it’s not piety, then usually there is some other trait that vasudhakt lack that supposedly made them unworthy: Intelligence, bravery, athletic prowess, the list goes on. Tales like this have enabled daivyakt to treat vasudhakt as inferior for the entirety of our history, when in reality, no one knows why the gods chose the people they did. Daivyakt judge Jagat Rai for what he did, but none of them are willing to acknowledge the role that casteism played in driving him into the arms of the Welkish missionaries.”
His speech was met with silence. Poppy wasn’t sure what to say. Hasan’s face had become stony.
Catching sight of Hasan’s expression, Mishika immediately scolded Ganak. “Don’t bring your politics in front of the guests!”
“Tell me where I lied, Ma. Is it offensive to speak the truth?”
Mishika snapped at him, a series of fast lines in a flurry of Virian. Poppy had gained enough fluency to understand that she was reprimanding her son for showing poor hospitality, and insisting that he either retract his statement or leave the table.
Face pinched, Ganak put his empty plate in his lap and wheeled himself out of the dining room in a huff, the chair bumping against the wall and on the other chairs in his haste. The sight stirred something in Poppy’s chest.
Hasan must have seen her face shift, because he bumped her gently with his arm. “What are you thinking?”
“I feel terrible that he lost his leg, especially so young.”
He shook his head. Meeting her eyes, he told her in Welkish, “Don’t pity him. He’s still alive in a world that wants him dead. He may have suffered greatly, but in the end, he’s lost nothing.”
In a way, Poppy understood. Surviving in a racist society was an act of resistance in and of itself. But she wished it didn’t have to be.
• • •
By the time they’d left Kanav and Mishika’s house, Poppy knew she had been wrong when she’d said that she had nothing to give up. She’d been wrong when she thought that she had the most to lose. If she lost her challenge against Richard, the worst thing she could face was exile, but these people would continue to suffer and die under the regime of another indifferent viceroy.
Hasan’s words about Ganak resonated with Poppy deeply. Every single person she had met today had survived in a society that had been designed to profit from their lives, individual coals destined to burn up in the fire of imperial greed. Their survival had not been an accident?—it was by choice, a series of decisions that they had made every day: to sacrifice, to give something up in exchange for another day, another year on this earth. Mishika and Kanav traded meals for the growth of their grandchildren, were willing to trade their ancestral land and traditions for generations who would eventually forget them.
Poppy had faced her own hardships, but they paled in comparison to the battles these villagers fought every day, a reflection of the greater war to survive that spanned the island. Admitting this did not belittle her own struggles. Yes, she’d known racism?—but she hadn’t realized how deadly it could be when one didn’t have wealth or an education to shield them. Hot shame spread through her as she recalled how she had insisted she had nothing more to sacrifice. What a fool she’d been, to think that she could fight this war without spilling blood.
When they returned to the car, Poppy turned and looked at the banyan tree. To Hasan, she said, “Give me your knife.”
He eyed her suspiciously. “What are you going to do?”
“I’m going to try,” she told him. “Trust me.”
She held her breath as Hasan gave her a long, evaluating look, searching her gaze with his coal-black eyes. Wordlessly, he took out his dagger and handed it to her. She crossed the grass and circled the base of the tree, gazing at the gods carved into the ancient trunk, searching until she found the one she was looking for: Rukmini, the mother.
Before she could lose her nerve, she nicked her thumb with the edge of the dagger, drawing a thin line of blood. Behind her, the sound of footsteps crunched on dead grass as the villagers’ curiosity drew them closer to her.
Poppy ignored the crowd as she gently smeared her blood on the bark below Rukmini’s face. As she did, she prayed,You are the mother of this island, and a mother protects and provides for her young. My father has failed to care for the people of this island. With your blessing, help me to become what these people need.Silently, she finished with the prayer Hasan had taught her.My veins are a vessel...Hoping that Rukmini had heard her, she closed her eyes and reached for her daivyakhi.
Moisture flooded her senses, deep in the soil, plentiful in the air around her. It would take more energy to condense it from the air, so she pulled from the soil instead, funneling it up in a thin stream that burst from the soil at the base of the banyan tree. Poppy’s palms grew sticky with sweat as she forced the stream to remain calm and steady, a fountain instead of a geyser.
A ripple of amazement ran through the villagers. “Poppy,” Hasan whispered, his tone awed. Her control slipped. The spring faltered, losing its shape.
“Shhh!” she hissed. He quieted.
